


Determination

by d__T



Category: Ravenous (1999)
Genre: Blowjobs, Boyd knows what he's doing, Cannibalism, Canon Compliant, M/M, Repressed Feelings, canon is steeped in dubcon and this is too, light blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 07:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21232040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d__T/pseuds/d__T
Summary: Ives thinks Boyd is a coward.Biding time isn't cowardice.





	Determination

It’s Knox who beats Boyd until his sinuses and throat choke with blood, but it’s the blood from Ives’ palm that sits in his stomach and burns him.

He waits.

He knows that when Knox goes silent, Ives will feed him. It will give him strength that he doesn’t want, and that he will uses it to kill Ives and then himself.

And thus will end Ives’ little fantasy.

Later, Boyd accepts the wooden bowl of stew from Ives. Not gratefully, nor with excitement. He holds it, letting the wood warm his hands and the steam loosen the gunk in his nose and throat. Ives watches him, curiosity in his sharp eyes.

“Eat.” Ives commands.

Boyd feels no desire, and overwhelming need. He hawks a mess of blood and snot onto the floor away from himself and Ives has the decency to look as revolted as Boyd feels.

Then he eats.

Ives stays, watching him, perhaps waiting for the devouring hunger to kick in. He refuses it, only permitting himself to eat steadily and wonder in a maudlin way if it’s possible to sate Ives in  _other_ ways. How long could he stand to do that before they end up like this again?

Ives leaves only to return with his own bowl. It’s a poor pretension to companionship, as Boyd remains shackled to the bedframe and curled up on the floor and Ives leans on the corner of the table, casually spread legged.

Ives had been a distraction to him at the beginning, a stupid little fantasy fueled by not having seen another man naked in quite some time. It had been easy to quell those fantasies later, with the blood in Ives mouth and the violence in his hands. But the need to consume rests in his own belly, too.

How long until the ‘vigor’ that Ives raves of hits? It’s a morbid curiosity, and one he wishes could come to him in better circumstances.

Ives must see him looking. He asks gleefully, “Do you feel it? The _need_?”

“I feel it.” Boyd responds dully.

Something in Ives relaxes, the strange reassurance that he craves. Boyd can feel it, the desire, and Ives’ too. All the gradations of it between them.

So Boyd lets it all out into his gaze, all the years of repressed need, of desires ignored and quieted into respectability, all of the hunger that Ives has put into him, and points it at Ives.

“Oh.” Ives breathes. “You do.”

Boyd sets his bowl aside. “I need you.”

He knows that Ives needs him more, the magnification of monstrosity, and that he needs Boyd alive too.

Ives sets his bowl aside too and steps towards him, click of wood on wood, thunk of bootheel on the plank floor.

“You need me.” Ives says, like Boyd hadn’t said it first. It’s a promise and not the only one Ives has imposed.

“I need you.” Boyd echoes, feeling like a ghost.

Perhaps that’s the truth of it. He’s needed Ives since his commanding officer’s blood and brains flowed into his mouth in that cart. He just didn’t know it.

“I had hoped, Captain,” Ives pauses in front of him, close enough that Boyd has to look up to avoid looking at his hips, “that you could be persuaded through good food, but perhaps you’ll be amenable to other methods.”

Boyd drops his gaze back to Ives’ hips instead of saying anything; he doesn’t know what to say. Ives nearly croons at him, and closes the distance between them. He brushes his fingers over Boyd’s matted hair, eventually drawing him to sit more upright and press his face in between Ives’ hips.

Ives is warm, oh so warm, the heat of desire burning outwards from within him, and the temptation to lean there into the heat and attempt to compose himself is strong but the slowly knitting gash across his face is too painful for that. He pulls away slightly, and Ives’ fingers dig into the back of his neck quite painfully. There is no escape from this, not from Ives’ hands nor the shackles that made his offer reasonable.

He stays frozen in Ives’ grasp as Ives unbuttons his fly with his other hand, knuckles brushing his face and stinging the wound. Ives’ prick is not hard when he pulls it out and presses Boyd’s lips to it. He could refuse to open his mouth, but to what point? He’d as good as offered.

Boyd sucks it into his mouth, soft, so soft, and far less foul tasting than he expects. Ives must have gotten a bath along with his new officers uniform and some part of him is bitterly jealous that Ives got to wash and shave and clean his clothes while Boyd was stuck in a cave, abandoned to heal his broken tibia and eat Reich. Boyd puts that thought away; Ives prick is at least quickly stiffening in his mouth, turning sturdy and compact like the man himself.  _At least_.

Boyd sucks; his determination is weak so he works mostly with his tongue, waiting for Ives to take what he wants. Waiting for this to become perverse in the ways that Ives makes everything perverse. Ives doesn’t take control immediately, simply holding the undamaged side of Boyd’s face in his hot hand to guide him.

Ives other hand comes down, cupping his face. His thumb presses on the gash and he has to know how that hurts. Boyd bobs his head, Ives sighs, the cross of the ever present rosary falls against his jaw. It's cold, the cheap cast alloy holding no heat from Ives hand.

Ives holds his head and fucks his mouth; he has the vigor, enough for both of them. Boyd lets him fill his mouth and press close to his throat, lets Ives stretch his wounded cheek against his palm from the inside.

Boyd wants it, and is repulsed by it, perversely amplified by the cross bumping against his jaw. Ives does not seem to notice or care, and then Boyd enters into his mercy. 

He swallows, refusing to taste Ives cum, and pulls away from him. Ives caresses his hair one last time before tucking his softening prick away, protecting himself from the cold air. He looks almost caring when he speaks, "You're a strange one, John, to give in to the desires of the blood but not the needs of the body." 

His Christian name feels spoiled by Ives tongue. "Did I," Boyd says, "give in?" 

Ives laughs and turns away instead of answering.

Boyd pulls as much of himself inside his sweater as he can before scrunching down into his corner again. How long?

How long?


End file.
